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anne Sexton

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Emily Jones

on 4 May 2010

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Transcript of anne Sexton

Double click anywhere & add an idea Anne Sexton
Housewife, Her Kind, Lullaby
Born November 9, 1928
Died October 4, 1974 Married Alfred Sexton on August 16th, 1948 Battled depression all throughout her life
and also suffered from a Bi-Polar disorder.

Dr. Martin Orne, Anne's therapist started her writing as a form of therapy.
known for her "confesional poetry"
Childrens Books
Collaborated with musicians calling themselves Her Kind
Pulitzer Prize in 1967 Carreer The End "The Aweful Rowing Toward God" was her last manuscript
Set to be published in the spring of 1975, however Anne
took her own life in the fall of 1974.
In an interview she said that she wouldn't allow the poem
to be published brfore her death. Her Kind I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, wuite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind. Housewife Some women marry houses.
It's another kind of skin; it has a heart,
a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
The walls are permanent and pink.
See how she sits on her knees all day,
faithfully washing herself down.
Men enter by force, drawn back like Jonah
into their fleshy mothers.
A woman is her mother.
That's the main thing. Lullaby It is a summer evening.
The yellow moths sag
against the locked screens
and the faded curtains
suck over the window sills
and from another building
a goat calls in his dreams.
This is the TV parlor
in the best ward at Bedlam.
The night nurse is passing
out the evening pills.
She walks on two erasers,
padding by us one by one.
MY sleeping pill is white.
It is a splendid pearl;
it floats me out of myself,
my stung skin as alien
as a loose bolt of cloth.
I will ignore the bed.
I am linen on a shelf.
Let the others moan in secret;
let each lost butterfly
go home. Old woolen head,
take me like a yellow moth
while the goat calls hush-
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